Black Actresses Quotes

she was such a bad actress. she never said her lines rite, it was something perverse in her nature. and wat was her line anyway?

You can't leave the show," King told Nichols. "We are there because you are there." Black people have been imagined in the future, he continued, emphasizing to the actress how important and ground breaking a fact that was. Furthermore, he told her, he had studied the Starfleet's command structure and believed that it mirrored that of the US Air Force, making Uhura --- a black woman! --- fourth in command of the ship.

She was beautiful. In fact she was possibly the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was tall, with dark black hair, light skin, and big brown eyes. Her face was beautiful, not fake beautiful like a model or an actress, because she was obviously a real person, but rather Helen of Troy, launch-a-thousand-ships kind of good-looking.

Yes, there was something special about me, and I knew what it was. I was the kind of girl they found dead in a hall bedroom with an empty bottle of sleeping pills in her hand. But things weren’t entirely black—not yet. When you’re young and healthy you can plan on Monday to commit suicide, and by Tuesday you’re laughing again.

My head was a stage wrapped in a curtain of black velvet, and on the stage stood a single actress, named Naomi.

I remember how during a casting session in Beverly Hills, a director described an A-list actress as being "pretty for a black girl"; he thought it was a compliment.

one of the most powerful abilities a person can have is not to care what other people think about them.

Faced with the prospect of a black depression, Highsmith once again retreated into fantasy, dreaming about an affair with the actress Anne Meacham, whose picture she had seen in a magazine publicising her role in the Tennessee Williams' play, In the Bar of a Tokyo Hotel. After the disasters of recent years, she reckoned that the safest option was to escape into romantic imagination. She reviewed her failures over the past five years and concluded that 'the moral is: stay alone. Any idea of any close relationship should be imaginary, like any story I am writing. This way no harm is done to me or to any other person'.

Despite a seemingly pervasive belief that only people of colour ‘play the race card’, it does not take anything as dramatic as a slave revolution or Japanese imperialism to evoke white racial anxieties, something as trivial as the casting of non-white people in films or plays in which a character was ‘supposed’ to be white will do the trick. For example, the casting of Olivier award-winning actress Noma Dumezweni to play the role of Hermione in the debut West End production of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child got bigots so riled up that J. K. Rowling felt the need to respond and give her blessing for a black actress to play the role. A similar but much larger controversy occurred when the character Rue in the film The Hunger Games was played by a black girl, Amandla Stenberg. Even though Rue is described as having brown skin in the original novel, ‘fans’ of the book were shocked and dismayed that the movie version cast a brown girl to play the role, and a Twitter storm of abuse about the ethnic casting of the role ensued. You have to read the responses to truly appreciate how angry and abusive they are.- As blogger Dodai Stewart pointed out at the time: All these . . . people . . . read The Hunger Games. Clearly, they all fell in love with and cared about Rue. Though what they really fell in love with was an image of Rue that they’d created in their minds. A girl that they knew they could love and adore and mourn at the thought of knowing that she’s been brutally killed. And then the casting is revealed (or they go see the movie) and they’re shocked to see that Rue is black. Now . . . this is so much more than, 'Oh, she’s bigger than I thought.’ The reactions are all based on feelings of disgust. These people are MAD that the girl that they cried over while reading the book was ‘some black girl’ all along. So now they’re angry. Wasted tears, wasted emotions. It’s sad to think that had they known that she was black all along, there would have been [no] sorrow or sadness over her death.

In September 2019, actress Felicity Huffman was sentenced to fourteen days in jail for shelling out $15,000 to rig her daughter’s SAT scores so she could get into a top university. In 2011, Kelley Williams-Bolar, a single black mother living in public housing in Akron, Ohio, was charged with multiple felonies and sentenced to two five-year sentences for using her father’s address to enroll her daughters in a better public school. That same year, Tanya McDowell, a homeless black mother living in Bridgeport, Connecticut, was sentenced to five years in prison for enrolling her five-year-old son in a neighboring public school.

When I met him, as we fell in love, I remember thinking that the fact that he was white made things easier because I knew he would never tell me I wasn't black enough. I think of Evelyn the first time she heard her maid speaking Spanish. I remember thinking the fact that he wasn't that well read meant he would never think I was a bad writer. I think of Celia telling Evelyn she wasn't a good actress. I remember thinking that the fact that I was clearly the more attractive one made me feel better, because I thought it meant he'd never leave. I think about how Don treated Evelyn despite her being, arguably, the most beautiful woman in the world.

The hat-check girl wore her hair in a schoolgirl pageboy so you were meant to think of Dorothy Collins – all innocence, wide-eyed and breathless – but this was mock-innocent and she knew her business, a narrow waist and shapely hips, lovely full breasts thrust out and upward inside the black satin bodice probably by one of those wired contraptions Howard Hughes had allegedly invented, the strapless brassiere a marvel of American know-how defying gravity, invented for that busty film actress Jane Russell who was probably one of his mistresses. A thing like that must hurt as much as the high-heeled pointy-toed shoes, Lyle Stevick though, worse than the corsets poor Hannah wore, sighing and lacing herself up as if the flesh was something you had to carry around with you, not exactly you but your burden and responsibility.

If these avatars were real people in a real street, Hiro wouldn't be able to reach the entrance. It's way too crowded. But the computer system that operates the Street has better things to do than to monitor every single one of the millions of people there, trying to prevent them from running into each other. It doesn't bother trying to solve this incredibly difficult problem. On the Street, avatars just walk right through each other. So when Hiro cuts through the crowd, headed for the entrance, he really is cutting through the crowd. When things get this jammed together, the computer simplifies things by drawing all of the avatars ghostly and translucent so you can see where you're going. Hiro appears solid to himself, but everyone else looks like a ghost. He walks through the crowd as if it's a fogbank, clearly seeing The Black Sun in front of him. He steps over the property line, and he's in the doorway. And in that instant he becomes solid and visible to all the avatars milling outside. As one, they all begin screaming. Not that they have any idea who the hell he is -- Hiro is just a starving CIC stringer who lives in a U-Stor-It by the airport. But in the entire world there are only a couple of thousand people who can step over the line into The Black Sun. He turns and looks back at ten thousand shrieking groupies. Now that he's all by himself in the entryway, no longer immersed in a flood of avatars, he can see all of the people in the front row of the crowd with perfect clarity. They are all done up in their wildest and fanciest avatars, hoping that Da5id -- The Black Sun's owner and hacker-in-chief -- will invite them inside. They flick and merge together into a hysterical wall. Stunningly beautiful women, computer-airbrushed and retouched at seventy-two frames a second, like Playboy pinups turned three-dimensional -- these are would-be actresses hoping to be discovered. Wild-looking abstracts, tornadoes of gyrating light-hackers who are hoping that Da5id will notice their talent, invite them inside, give them a job. A liberal sprinkling of black-and-white people -- persons who are accessing the Metaverse through cheap public terminals, and who are rendered in jerky, grainy black and white. A lot of these are run-of-the-mill psycho fans, devoted to the fantasy of stabbing some particular actress to death; they can't even get close in Reality, so they goggle into the Metaverse to stalk their prey. There are would-be rock stars done up in laser light, as though they just stepped off the concert stage, and the avatars of Nipponese businessmen, exquisitely rendered by their fancy equipment, but utterly reserved and boring in their suits.

 “You like me, though. You want to go on a date with me.” It wasn’t a question. “Cocky much?” “Confident. Don’t be mistaken.” “Why do you want to take me out so badly?” “Fishing for more compliments, are we?” He’d caught me, but went on anyway. “Obviously you’re beautiful. You have nice, you know, legs and . . . stuff.” “You’re laughing. I don’t think I’m really your type. I think you’re messing with me. I’m not at all like Charlize Theron.” We pulled up to my car but he let Charlize idle before getting out. “You are so my type. Charlize—at least the actress—is not. I mean, she’s gorgeous, in a blond, Amazonian, I-might-kill-and-eat-my-own-young kind of way, but I like your look better.” “Oh yeah? What’s my look?” “There’s something dark about you . . . and interesting. Your creamy skin, your black hair. The way you move. Your mouth.” He reached out to touch my cheek but I jerked away, breaking the seriousness of the moment. “What do you mean I’m dark?” He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I want to get naked with you and a Ouija board.” I burst out laughing. “And your laugh . . . it’s like the sound of someone squeezing the life out of a miniature trumpet. It’s really cute.” “That is not a compliment. I have a nice laugh. And by the way, your voice is nasally when you’re not trying to impress people.” He held his hand to his chest like he was offended, except he was still smiling. “I’m crushed. Penny, whatever your last name is—” “Piper.” “Ha! Penny Piper? You’ve got to be kidding! That’s either a children’s book character or a porn star’s name. Penny Piper picked a peck of pickled pep—” “Stop! I know, trust me. I have to live with this name. My poor sister’s name is Kiki Piper. Like we’re fucking hobbits or something.” “Penny Piper is worse than Kiki Piper, hands down.” I cocked my head to the side. “Thanks.” “Just sayin’. What’s your middle name?” “Isabelle.” “I’m gonna call you PIP Squeak.” “Thank you. I can’t wait.” “And by the way, I happen to have a deviated septum. That’s why my voice sounds like this sometimes, you asshole. Now get out and help me with your car.” As we stepped out, he pointed to my Honda and said, “Try and start it when I tell you.” I stopped and turned to him. “What’s your middle and last name?” “Gavin Augusta Berninger.” “Regal,” I said with a wink. “I know, right?” He shrugged one arm like he was royalty or something. “Is that French?” “Yeah, my dad’s family is French . . . sort of. Like, his great-great-grandfather came from France. No one in our family even speaks French.” “Hmm, not so regal anymore,” I said. “Whatever, Penny Piper.

Movie Adaptation of William March’s THE BAD SEED 1956: Produced by Warner Bros. Directed by Mervyn LeRoy. Starring Nancy Kelly, Patty McCormack, and Eileen Heckart. Screenplay by John Lee Mahin. Academy Award nominee for Best Actress, Best Actress in a Supporting Role (both McCormack and Heckart were nominated), and Best Cinematography, Black-and-White.

As the Count refilled their glasses, he was struck by a memory of his own that seemed in keeping with the conversation. “I spent a good part of my youth in the province of Nizhny Novgorod,” he said, “which happens to be the world capital of the apple. In Nizhny Novgorod, there are not simply apple trees scattered about the countryside; there are forests of apple trees—forests as wild and ancient as Russia itself—in which apples grow in every color of the rainbow and in sizes ranging from a walnut to a cannonball.” “I take it you ate your fair share of apples.” “Oh, we’d find them tucked in our omelets at breakfast, floating in our soups at lunch, and stuffed in our pheasants at dinner. Come Christmas, we had eaten every single variety the woods had to offer.” The Count was about to lift his glass to toast the comprehensiveness of their apple eating, when he waved a self-correcting finger. “Actually, there was one apple that we did not eat. . . .” The actress raised one of her bedeviling eyebrows. “Which?” “According to local lore, hidden deep within the forest was a tree with apples as black as coal—and if you could find this tree and eat of its fruit, you could start your life anew.” The Count took a generous drink of the Montrachet, pleased to have summoned this little folktale from the past. “So would you?” the actress asked. “Would I what?” “If you found that apple hidden in the forest, would you take a bite?” The Count put his glass on the table and shook his head. “There’s certainly some allure to the idea of a fresh start; but how could I relinquish my memories of home, of my sister, of my school years.” The Count gestured to the table. “How could I relinquish my memory of this?” And Anna Urbanova, having put her napkin on her plate and pushed back her chair, came round the table, took the Count by the collar, and kissed him on the mouth.

Dramatic. Was it normal for doctors to think black women were professional actresses, using their pregnancies to try to garner sympathy and attention from others?

The little black dress turned the color associated with housemaids’ uniforms and widow’s weeds into a marker of privileged yet.… accessible—and somehow American (Ford-like)—freedom. Chanel summed up the phenomenon simply: “Before me, no one would have dared dress in black. For four or five years, I did nothing but black, with a little white collar, which sold like hotcakes, I made a fortune. Everyone wore a little black dress … movie actresses, housemaids.

February 26: Picture Week features a smiling Marilyn in black-and-white, dressed casually in a loose blouse, resting the right side of her face on her hands and her upper body on her elbows. “A Glimpse into Marilyn’s Future” is the promising headline. Joe DiMaggio takes Marilyn to a birthday party for Jackie Gleason at Toots Shor’s restaurant. Marilyn is photographed signing autographs, laughing with Gleason and DiMaggio, and with a very satisfied looking Milton Berle. She gets a splinter when she sits on a wooden chair, and actress Audrey Meadows removes the splinter with a straight needle sterilized with a cigarette lighter.

Sophie was smiling at the baby, who was making a determined play for the cat’s nose. Vim expected the beast to issue the kind of reprimand children remembered long after the scratches had healed, but the cat instead walked away, all the more dignified for its missing parts. “He must go terrorize mice,” Sophie said, rising with the child in her arms. “You’re telling me that cat still mouses?” Vim asked, taking the baby from her in a maneuver that was beginning to feel automatic. “Of course Pee Wee mouses.” Sophie turned a smile on him. “A few battle scars won’t slow a warrior like him down.” “A name like Pee Wee might.” She wrapped her hand into the crook of his elbow as they started across the alley. “Elizabeth gets more grief over his name than Pee Wee does.” “And rightly so. Why on earth would you inflict a feminine name on a big, black tom cat?” “I didn’t name him Elizabeth. I named him Bête Noir, after the French for black beast. Merriweather started calling him Betty Knorr after some actress, which was a tad too informal for such an animal, and hence he became Elizabeth. He answers to it now.” Vim suppressed the twitching of his lips, because this explanation was delivered with a perfectly straight face. “I suppose all that counts is that the cat recognizes it. It isn’t as if the cats were going to comprehend the French.” “It’s silly.” She paused inside the garden gate, her expression self-conscious. He stopped with her on the path, cradling the baby against his chest and trying to fathom what she needed to hear at the moment. “To the cat it isn’t silly, Sophie. To him, your kindness and care are the difference between life and death.” “He’s just a cat.” But she looked pleased with Vim’s observations. “And this is just a baby. Come.

One of the band’s all-time-favorite movies was What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, starring Bette Davis. In the movie, Bette wears disgusting caked makeup smeared on her face and underneath her eyes, with deep, dark, black eyeliner. She looks horrific and creepy because she put on traditional makeup thickly and badly. Another movie we watched over and over was Barbarella. One character, the Great Tyrant, was played by the gorgeous European actress Anita Pallenberg. She dressed in black leather with a black eye patch and had switchblades coming out of her. Alice Cooper’s look evolved from a composite of those female movie characters, with a little bit of Emma Peel from The Avengers added for good measure. Not

Strangely enough, she never insisted they cast a Black actress as the lead.

At the time, Paul was engaged to the actress Jane Asher. Not that he was in any way exclusive—certainly not when the Beatles were touring, and not even when he was in London, despite Jane’s having moved into his house in 1966. Jane’s acting career took her out of town frequently, and though that was a point of contention between them—Paul’s preference was that she give up her career and become a more traditionally domesticated wife and mother—her absences also suited Paul, a man in his twenties with a seemingly insatiable libido and a black book full of willing playmates.

He came up to where Dasyel stood with the actress, near enough to see the mending in the sky armor and the starry dress, the black actors’ paint round both their eyes, the young and flawless skin of both, smooth as metal and brown from the road. Volk smiled at the actress and she took half a step in retreat. Volk looked harder at Dasyel; Dasyel did nothing, only looked back at him with his water-color eyes, unflinching, confident, open. And Volk felt that same passage of non-sexual yet demanding lust go through him as he had felt when he saw the maiden from Yevdora.

We were friends now, and would stay that way. A couple of years ago, black-ish actress Tracee Ellis Ross wrote a touching tribute to her friend, the fashion editor Samira Nasr, on Facebook. She described how the two of them had met and bonded while working together at a magazine. Tracee had caught sight of Samira across a room and thought, “She has similar hair…I bet we could be friends.” And it turned out she was right. They’ve been besties for more than twenty-five years now. “I couldn’t do this life thing without her,” Tracee wrote in her post. “I am a barnacle on her life.

You can’t leave the show,” King said to Nichols. “We are there because you are there.” Black people have been imagined in the future, he continued, emphasizing to the actress how important and groundbreaking a fact that was. Furthermore, he told her, he had studied the Starfleet’s command structure and believed that it mirrored that of the US Air Force, making Uhura—a black woman!—fourth in command of the ship. “This is not a black role, this is not a female role,” he said to her. “This is a unique role that brings to life what we are marching for: equality.” The rest of Nichols’ weekend was a fog of anger and sadness: what right did Dr. King have to upend her career plans? Eventually, she moved from resignation to conviction. Nichols returned to Gene Roddenberry’s office on Monday morning and asked him to tear up the resignation letter.

eggs and curried chicken salad and double fudge brownies. That was all she was good at: eating. In the summer the Castles, the Alistairs, and the Randolphs all went to the beach together. When they were younger, they would play flashlight tag, light a bonfire, and sing Beatles songs, with Mr. Randolph playing the guitar and Penny’s voice floating above everyone else’s. But at some point Demeter had stopped feeling comfortable in a bathing suit. She wore shorts and oversized T-shirts to the beach, and she wouldn’t go in the water, wouldn’t walk with Penny to look for shells, wouldn’t throw the Frisbee with Hobby and Jake. The other three kids always tried to include Demeter, which was more humiliating, somehow, than if they’d just ignored her. They were earnest in their pursuit of her attention, but Demeter suspected this was their parents’ doing. Mr. Randolph might have offered Jake a twenty-dollar bribe to be nice to Demeter because Al Castle was an old friend. Hobby and Penny were nice to her because they felt sorry for her. Or maybe Hobby and Penny and Jake all had a bet going about who would be the one to break through Demeter’s Teflon shield. She was a game to them. In the fall there were football parties at the Alistairs’ house, during which the adults and Hobby and Jake watched the Patriots, Penny listened to music on her headphones, and Demeter dug into Zoe Alistair’s white chicken chili and topped it with a double spoonful of sour cream. In the winter there were weekends at Stowe. Al and Lynne Castle owned a condo near the mountain, and Demeter had learned to ski as a child. According to her parents, she used to careen down the black-diamond trails without a moment’s hesitation. But by the time they went to Vermont with the Alistairs and the Randolphs, Demeter refused to get on skis at all. She sat in the lodge and drank hot chocolate until the rest of the gang came clomping in after their runs, rosy-cheeked and winded. And then the ski weekends, at least, had stopped happening, because Hobby had basketball and Penny and Jake were in the school musical, which meant rehearsals night and day. Demeter thought back to all those springs, summers, falls, and winters with Hobby and Penny and Jake, and she wondered how her parents could have put her through such exquisite torture. Hobby and Penny and Jake were all exceptional children, while Demeter was seventy pounds overweight, which sank her self-esteem, which led to her getting mediocre grades when she was smart enough for A’s and killed her chances of landing the part of Rizzo in Grease, even though she was a gifted actress. Hobby was in a coma. Her mother was on the phone. She kept

When she was starting out as an actress, a well-known director had leaned over his script, straightened his Coke-bottle glasses, and told Laurel she hadn't the looks to play leading roles. The advice had stung, and she'd wailed and railed, and then spent hours catching herself accidentally on purpose in the mirror before hacking her long hair short in the grip of drunken bravura. But it had proven a "moment" in her career. She was a character actress. The director cast her as the leading lady's sister, and she garnered her first rave reviews. People marveled at her ability to build characters from the inside out, to submerge herself and disappear beneath the skin of another person, but there was no trick to it; she merely bothered to learn the character's secrets. Laurel knew quite a bit about keeping secrets. She also knew that was where the real people were found, hiding behind their black spots.

Eat- Yō Sandwich (Lunch) It is a foot long; Ha- better than six inches, said Maddie. Karly- Suck on your meatballs… ‘You should know you’ve done both.’ Some girl down the table- said. Let’s talk about books, said Olivia. God just shot me in the head, so I can die, ha- hey see the sped? Nice- book’s- Maddie- ha! Karly- I think movies like Twilight freaking suck, (Throwing both middle fingers in the air making a skilling face.) The sporting actress made fame, what it is. Look at her and the look at that, what is- that, I love Anna Kendrick? Teach walking by saying that a mother-week Barns. Liv- I think she would have made a better Bella, than the girl with no personality, yet that’s the book I read that thing and it was painful. I guess that my assignment in life is over my Karly kiss my ass where it is brown and holy! And that another one, sure it is… Suck my clit. No! Yes, you want to! (Sexy eyes) That's it- you're expelled- Good now I can party and have some fun sleeping and not doing this crap, so you're going to punish me by not being here, freak yeah! The towing sickness of a teacher whose name is Mr. Abdèlaziz Okay smart-ie, in-school suspension, then right. Karly- Freaking-, ho-bag, psycho, b*tch, p*ssy-tart- cunt! Under her breath. (She gets taken out by her hair, by the officer what’s his name, roughly, I might add.) Like who paints a room all black, and faces the desks at the wall, where you could only piss two times… no air to speak of and some fat ass smelling like crap farting up and down the five by thirdly long skinny room, next to you is what… I got six out of seven freaking hours, all week I might add. ~*~ (Flashback) I love bands that are not cool so what do you do here? Freak yeah, at least I made it as one of our dumb ho’s… in a short skirt that shows nothing under it, to think I made it, wow good to think… you think I am good enough to be the same look, and size or whatever, yet you can’t say the N-word or a knotty little swore ward… Yet- yet- teachers can call me every name you can think of… in the urban book of crap, like I cannot even wear a tank… without a bra in the halls, yet, this girl can… do you see all the bouncing, and nipples pointing, at you, I sure do?

story, preferably an exclusive, and preferably something that crosses into news. “You can pull over on the next corner,” she says, suddenly, spotting a restaurant/bar on Kingly Street she has always quite liked. It’s a bar she wrote about when it first opened, the chef letting her spend the day in the kitchen to get a true feel. She hasn’t been here for a while and the chef has long since moved on, but it is the perfect bar to have a couple of glasses of wine in a quiet corner while she gets out her notepad and jots down ideas. She needs ideas because time is running out. She needs to find a big story, and fast. Cat perches at the bar itself for the first glass of wine, surprised it disappears so quickly, taking a little longer over the second, before taking the third over to a corner table. She drapes her jacket over the back of the chair, pulls a stack of tabloids out from her bag, and starts to flick through them looking for ideas. There is the actress who keeps showing up with very heavy makeup that appears to be covering a black eye, who has a husband prone to temper tantrums and who has done time for drugs. Seedy stuff. And it seems that it is surely only a matter of time before the actress breaks down to reveal she is a victim of domestic abuse. Perhaps Cat can get to her? Cat scribbles the name down in her note pad. She’ll ring the BBC PR tomorrow and request an interview, but not about the black eye, obviously. She’ll say it’s about something innocuous, like her favorite

She's really not much of an actress, but she enchants people just the same. I've seen strangers stop what they're doing to watch her shake sugar into her tea.